


Orange Is The New Black

by sasha_b



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:37:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A scarf and a memory tie Bass and Miles together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orange Is The New Black

**Author's Note:**

  * For [buttercups3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/gifts).



> Written for the nbc_revolution LJ community Secret Santa fic exchange.

 

 

  
**Year Nine**

The only reason Miles knows it’s close to what used to be Christmas is the change in the moon and the length of the days. And the fact that it’s bitter-ass cold. He hates the cold. Bass had made fun of him pretty much their whole lives because of that; Miles had let him until the year Miles’ mother had forced a really ugly orange scarf on him that had set Bass off on a laughing tear so loud Miles had wondered if the other boy might piss himself.

The punch Miles had thrown had been harder than he’d anticipated, but it had shut Bass up good. Dipshit. It wasn’t _that_ ugly.

He twists his mouth and crosses his arms. His hair is slicked back and his green uniform is neat and clean despite the blood that had been splashed on him a few hours previous; he doesn’t like to be messy. He doesn’t like to wear evidence of what he does. Of what he and Bass do.

Swallowing, Miles thinks about that family Bass had murdered for him. For _him_ , Bass had said. He’s been thinking about that family a lot lately, and his gut is churning with the mixed brain soup that incident has been causing still.

They have food and drink and plenty of whatever they need due to the taxes the Militia requires its subjects to pay – Miles rubs his clean-shaven face and wonders when people will start fighting back. He wonders at the gall it took to build what they’ve built and he wonders how they could have done it so _easily_ and he coughs as Bass enters the room behind him, boots echoing hollowly on the hardwood floor.

“Merry Christmas, brother.”

Bass hands him a tumbler of scotch and Miles sucks it down, letting the burn of the alcohol shut the damn storm in his brain up. “Yeah,” he answers, not looking at Bass, not wanting to face the blue eyes he’s way too familiar with. Not willing to see the damage in the face that he’s known his whole life.

Not willing to think about what he’s been thinking about doing.

“Remember that first year in college?”

Miles almost looks at Bass when the other man says that out of the blue. Almost: he checks himself and hides the surprise at the words that have come from nowhere out of Bass’ mobile mouth. He narrows his eyes and shoves his hands into his pockets and doesn’t want to remember what Bass is talking about, but he does. Easily.

He bites his lower lip and tries not to let his sigh be loud enough to be heard. Here’s _Bass_ and him together at the window, staring at the life they’ve created and maybe, just maybe –

“Yeah, Bass.”

**2001**

They don’t run the heater in their apartment very much; it’s too damn expensive and Miles had told Bass to _suck it up and wear more layers, man_. Bass had quit grousing when Miles had handed him _the_ orange scarf and Bass had merely laughed until he teared up, putting the thing on. Since then, Miles hasn’t seen him without it.

Philly is blanketed in snow. It’s pretty, but Miles hates the cold, so he stares at it from their window, forehead pressed against the glass, breath fogging it up enough that he raises a finger and writes _I hate cold_ , the digit squeaking with his effort.

The door behind him shuts and Bass smiles as he sets down two red paper cups, hands chapped from the weather, that stupid orange scarf wrapped tightly about his neck. His blond hair is wild from the wind and Miles shakes his head as he turns, one eyebrow cocking at the sight of bought out coffee.

“What’s wrong with the Mister?”

“The Mister makes all coffee taste like cigarette butts; I don’t give a shit what the people at Target said. And I had a coupon and I flirted with the barista girl, so these were almost free,” Bass answers, smiling from ear to ear as he slouches to where Miles is standing. “And – I have a surprise.” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls a small bottle of brown liquid out. “Celebratory coffee.”

Miles’ grin widens. “Now you’re talking.” He snatches the rum from Bass and opens the lids on the fancy coffee they can’t really afford, and pours a healthy dose into each cup. Swirling them around, he recaps them and hands one to Bass, whose smile is white and ridiculous and they knock their cups together, both men drinking quickly – the sun bursts through the window briefly, making the snow shine and sparkle and Miles feels the burn of alcohol toast his insides and he and his friend stand shoulder to shoulder and watch the little seen light make everything glow like the inside of a fucking snow globe.

“Merry Christmas, Miles.”

“You too, Bass.”

They drink up, and Bass in that damn scarf – Miles cracks another smile and then laughs and Bass looks at him askance until he notices where Miles’ eyes are glancing and he smirks, finishing his boozy coffee and he raises a hand, scrubbing it through his wild curls and he touches Miles on the neck, hand ice cold but familiar and Miles leans into it, eyes drifting closed briefly.

“My dad invited us down for dinner.”

“We have papers to write.”

“Yeah, I know. I told him as much.”

“Nice, though.” Miles sighs and pulls away from Bass, going to the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets, then the fridge. “So basically we could have an awesome homemade turkey and everything else dinner, for free, or we could stay here and have – week old pizza, a flat coke, and hey! Three and a half Oreos! Outstanding.” He brandishes the pizza box at Bass, laughing, and the other man is suddenly in his face and grabbing the cardboard out of Miles’ hands, his smile broad and sly.

“I’m cold, Miles. I don’t want to get in the damn car and drive the fifty miles to dad’s house.”

Miles swallows and meets Bass’ eyes. Blue, burning bright blue, as bright as the sun and they absorb him, pulling everything from him that’s anything and he grabs up the ends of the scarf around Bass’ neck and his mouth meets Bass’ and he’s suddenly not cold at all.

It’s slow at first.

“I’m still cold, man,” Bass pants as they struggle with each other, both of them grunting and fighting for dominance, Miles’ jacket on the floor and Bass’ boots off, his coat and jeans halfway unbuttoned. “There’s hot water in the shower.” He grins and Miles is dazzled by the whiteness – fucking Bass’ teeth. They’d always been perfect. Asshole.

He laughs and Bass makes a face. “Never mind,” Miles says and they’re in the shower quicker than Miles can make a decision and neither of them is cold anymore.

When they wake up later, tangled on Miles’ small bed together, the heater comes on and before Miles can get up to turn it down ( _money, seriously, it’s not like we can grow it_ ) Bass grabs his arm and shakes his head. “It’s Christmas,” he says sleepily. “Leave it on. We’ll figure something out.”

Miles twists his mouth but lies back down. He crosses his arms behind his head, the idea he’s been tossing around not ready to be voiced yet. There’s a legit way to get money and to see other places besides Pennsylvania.

He wonders if Bass might take him seriously when he says he wants to join the Marines.

**Year Nine**

They don’t do anything in the Militia for what used to be holidays. Bass had wanted to have a special dinner, but Miles had shot that idea down, saying _nothing special that the other men can’t have_ and after a bit of arguing, Bass had agreed.

Besides, the thought of who’s still in their dungeons below ground makes Miles not hungry at all.

He blinks and turns to face Bass, the other man watching out the window. Miles is treated to a full on view of Bass’ profile, and he remembers that first Christmas in that dinky ass cold apartment and he wonders what happened to that Bass and Miles.

He could say _the blackout happened, the Militia happened, Rachel happened_ but he keeps his mouth shut and moves on, as he’s been wont to do his whole life. Moving on – he knows he needs to again, but the _when_ and _how_ is still developing. It makes him want to weep to know that’s the way he’s most likely going to have to go. But he won’t let himself do that, and he nods a bit at Bass as he turns to leave the office.

“Thanks for the drink.”

“Of course,” Bass answers, as if Miles is nuts for even saying it. “I meant it. Merry Christmas, Miles.”

The sound of his name from Bass’ mouth is painful, the letters in order falling from Bass’ lips like the easiest things in the world and Miles closes his eyes again, something he finds he’s been doing a lot lately. The sound of Bass’ boots on the floor near him forces him to look at the other man, and Bass passes him by, uniform neat and matching the green of Miles’ clothing.

Except for the flash of dingy, well worn orange at his throat.

Miles bites the inside of his cheek until it bleeds.


End file.
